


You Have to Devolve to Evolve

by Gemini_Spark11



Series: Bloody are the Hands that Hold the Crown [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, British Empire, British Politics, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Colonization, Confessions, Confinement, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fae & Fairies, Familial Abuse, Family Bonding, Flashbacks, Historical Hetalia, Human & Country Names Used (Hetalia), Magical Realism, Multi, Muteness, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Priests, Religious Discussion, Religious Guilt, Repressed Memories, Running Away, Starvation, Tsundere England (Hetalia), Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemini_Spark11/pseuds/Gemini_Spark11
Summary: The UK Brothers struggle to gain any form of recognition at the World Conference due to Arthur's domineering nature. One by one, they discover a secret about being a Country that only a few at the Conference have experienced for themselves.It is the key to reconciling what Arthur has done in the past, and for them to learn to be their own shining light outside Arthur's ever-present shadow.Arthur doesn't know what's hit him until its literally on his doorstep, and he certainly isn't prepared to see how the brutal treatment of his brothers has changed them-in most cases-for the worse.Will he ever realize what he did wrong, and will he ever apologize?This is the formation of the Celtic Trio.
Relationships: France/Scotland (Hetalia)
Series: Bloody are the Hands that Hold the Crown [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915615
Kudos: 6





	1. I May Have a Clean Slate (But I Still Have Skeletons in the Cupboard)

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely born out of a deep political headcannon I have for Hetalia.
> 
> As there's no concrete base for Wales, Scotland or NI, I claim the right to these versions of them.
> 
> The British Empire has always been a potent topic for me, and I like to use Hetalia to vent and write about it, as I believe that there's a utter lack of true info about it in today's curriculum.
> 
> Comment if you agree (and why) !

**_England’s house, 5:30 am, 31 st July, 2019_ **

****

Arthur was awoken by a loud noise from downstairs. _What an ungodly hour to interrupt someone’s sleep,_ he thought with scowl on his face, in a rushed attempt to look at least half decent in the event he had a visitor. In the blind darkness, he stumbled down the stairs, reached the living room, and turned on the light.

England surveyed the room. To his surprise, nothing seemed out of place. Satisfied with his findings (or rather, lack of them) he was about turn back to go upstairs to the bedroom, when…

_KNOCK!_

Frustrated, England determinedly marched to the door, keen to investigate whoever was on the other side of it. He was so ready to give them an absolute earful! How dare they!

And so, he pulled at the door knob, opening it with an almighty swing. There, standing in rain, was a group of boys and a sopping wet Irish Wolfhound.

The tallest of huddle stood at back, a red head, wearing a Snow Patrol band t shirt. He was also probably the oldest and their leader, judging by the angular lines of his face, and the way he glared at Arthur with fierce intensity.

The boy in front him had a hair colour somewhere between blond and brown. He looked no older than 16, and yet, he held himself with an air that Arthur only seen with the greatest poets and authors; quiet confidence mixed in alongside wisdom. His eyes were hazel, almost gold. He had a waterproof jacket on too and red headphones around his neck. What confused Arthur the most about him though, was that he looked incredibly smug and joyful (almost ecstatic) for someone who was standing in the rain.

“Why are you so happy? It’s bloody raining!” Arthur exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air to make his point clear.

To England’s chagrin, the boy in question simply pushed past him as if he hadn’t heard Arthur speak. The large dog beside him obediently trotted in unison with his step, an unspoken bond between them. He stopped in the centre of the room, unzipping his coat and carelessly tossing it aside. Unfortunately, it landed on Arthur’s favourite beige couch. He then spun to face England, wearing a bright red woollen jumper over a smart lined shirt. The young man propped himself on his tip toes, smiling brightly while keeping his hands clasped politely behind his back.

Arthur took that proud look on his face as a challenge, so he repeated his earlier question. Giddy with excitement, the boy pointed to the red head, who suddenly produced a yellow and black messenger style rucksack from behind him, and unlatched the top flap. After some fumbling, he threw a blue diary toward the younger boy, who seemed to catch it easily with both hands. He took a pen out of his top pocket, writing something that Arthur couldn’t see. He handed to him with visible amount of hesitation, sharing a brief glance with the red head who still stood in the doorway. That boy nodded ever so slightly.

Meanwhile, Arthur opened the diary, skipping past the first few entries. He soon found what he wanted, but it wasn’t in English. The mute boy tapped the page Arthur was currently looking at. It simply read:

**Fy ngwyl!**

That frustrated Arthur beyond belief. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t understand it! (Or maybe it was. Either way, he was _never_ going to admit it.)

“We’re in England aren’t we?” Arthur shouted angrily, “So speak English!”

The boy’s reaction was immediate and severe. Any confidence he’d possessed in the previous moments vanished, as if it’d been thrown to the wind. He cowered away from England like a shrinking violet, eyes widening in a frantic panic until he resembled a deer frozen in headlights. The boy brought up shaking hands to shield his face from Arthur’s enraged assault on his indigenous language. His whole body trembling, he then fell to the ground, backing away from Arthur like a cornered animal until his back hit the wall. When the poor boy did, he hastily stood up and proceeded to run into the next room, neglecting to even close the door.

Arthur did not move, for all he could do was stare. _Had his shouting really caused **all that**?_

An outraged voice pulled Arthur out of his daze. It held the trademark aggressiveness of a thick Scottish accent. Only, this time, the anger was aimed at Arthur.

“Look at what you did to Mordy! This is all your fault!”

In a minute, before Arthur could realize it, a strong hand grabbed his shoulder. Soon, he was face to face with the red head. Arthur had absolutely no idea how he had suddenly crossed the carpet.

“Did you ever stop to think why Mordred’s notebook is blue? Blue! Because of what you did him! It’s symbolic, he’s finally starting to fight back, and you shut him down like it was nothing!” The Scottish young man yelled.

“Maybe you should look at this, then.” He said bitterly, thrusting an expensive looking leather bound sketchbook into England’s hands, before marching in the direction of the kitchen to find the other boy – Mordred, with another boy he hadn’t noticed in tow; a ginger lad who hid himself Arthur’s view somewhat.

 _What I’ve done is always in the good of the Empire._ England thought, as he watched them leave


	2. Chapter 2-Act I-Underneath Blue Covers

**_England’s house, one of the spare bedrooms, 6:00 am, the next morning_ **

****

_I’m being forced on my knees by strong hands. I can’t see Lloegr, but his body soon comes into view, his sneering face inches away from mine. “Why do you continue to speak such a vulgar language, Wales? Most Welsh looks like it’s written by a homeless man! Try replacing it with a little English.” England says haughtily._

_By some wonder, I still have a tiny fighting spirit left in me. I won’t give in. Not yet. I raise my head to throw England a weak glare, and to look as unaffected by my wounds as possible._

_“Amnewidiwch ef? Peidiwch byth! Nid fi fydd eich pyped. Mae gwlad heb iaith yn wlad heb galon!” I hiss, spitting blood at his feet for good measure._

_I can feel England’s disappointment on my back, and then…_

_And then comes the pain._

_Each crack of England’s belt feels a hundred times harsher than the last, and soon I find myself covered in my own blood, countless rivulets dripping down my back. The pain is endless._

_“Please, Arthur!” I sob, just wanting the suffering to end. My pleas go unheard. I reduce myself screaming._

_“Stop it,stop it,stop it!”_

_“Only if you submit to me.”_

_I scream again._

I shoot up in bed with a yell, opening my eyes to a murderous Scotsman, and a shaken Finn, who looks as white as a sheet. He probably heard me shouting, poor kid hates loud noises. ~~(I bet you can’t guess whose fault that is, can you?)~~

“You were shrieking so loudly that my people could’ve mistaken you for a wailing banshee trying to bring down The Giant’s Causeway.” Ire admits softly.

Ah, so he _did_ hear me bawling like a baby last night.

 **I’m going to take a shower, if you don’t mind. I’m not going to go back to sleep.** Scotland nods, seeming pleased with my decision. Finlay, bless his sweet soul, jumps up to open the bathroom door. I pad quietly over to the shower. Hamish clears his throat, I turn around to look at him. He has that expression on his face he usually wears when he wants to strangle someone, shake them by shoulders for being stupid, or both. Though, a warm fondness has entered his eyes. Now, _that_ kind of face is the one he only reserves for when he’s talking to France.

“Never forget that you’re your own person, your own country.” Scotland reminds me sternly.

His instructions might’ve as well fallen on deaf ears. More recently, and on days like these, I’ve found it so, so hard to do so. England’s stolen my natural resources, butchered my language, ripped off my legends. My people are forever at the butt of cruel sheep jokes. Less than 30% of them speak fluent Cymraeg, convinced that English is easier. What’s next? Some days, I feel a little less than a spare container for England’s desires. England is to me as America is to Canada, such is my life. I’ve come to accept my fate as a lesser country with cold apathy. ~~(England put that in me; squeezing until blood comes out, white instead of red.)~~

Scotland’s continued speaking, one hand held up in a placating gesture, noticing how my thoughts have tumbled down a tunnel darker than any mine. “In my humble opinion, no other country within our little kingdom can match you in arts talent. You’re awesome, Cymru!” He beams.

His words make me freeze where I’m stood. Absolutely no one has bothered to call me by that name in what feels like forever. My _true name._ A joy spreads through my body, the sort that I only remember from my boys winning a rygbi match, or travelling over the Severn Bridge. “Oh, sweet hiraeth!” I tearfully exclaim, actual words falling out of my mouth before I even comprehend what I’m doing. I tackle (great choice of words, eh?) Hamish with such force that he falls flat onto the covers. “You’ve remembered it! Diolch chi so much!” I whisper, colliding with him.

“No problem, mate.” Scotland replies, in a quiet, bashful voice. He’s probably too stunned to anything else. I pull back from the hug to see that he and Ire are wearing identical astonished expressions.

“Not too bad yourself, Alba.” I respond meekly, putting a fist over my heart and rubbing slowly to symbolise my gratitude, with a small dip of the head. My brawd’s words have soothed an ache in my bones. A deep exhaustion washes over me, and I’m suddenly reminded of what I wanted to do in the in the first place; take a shower.

I get into the shower eventually, savouring how the warm water cascades down my stiff shoulders, working out kinks in my spine.

Then, I do something I haven’t done in the longest time. I _sing_ , belting out Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau at the top of my lungs like no one’s ~~(England)~~ watching.


	3. Chapter 2-Act II-A Stroll Down Memory Bridge is a Walk on Stolen Ground

**_England’s house, the living room, 8:00 am, the same day_ **

After my heated confrontation with the Scotsman, I sat in my favourite armchair for some time, sketchbook still in hand. Just what had I done to make him so annoyed? A vague feeling of unease tells me I will not like the answer.

I look down at it, studying the imprint on the front cover. The shape is instantly recognisable to me.

The Welsh Dragon.

For some reason, that symbol stirs something deep within me, a recollection just at the edge of memory. Put off by that strange, unnamed sensation, but nevertheless curious, I decide on opening the sketchbook.

Maybe that decision is against my better judgement, because almost immediately I am greeted with a sombre looking note on the first page. It is eerily reminiscent of the swishing calligraphy favoured by Victorian nobles on official letters. It reads:

_To anyone who asks me: A prophecy of Myriddin has been fulfilled. Y Draig Goch has died five times. First by beheading, then a sword through the heart, next by quill, and lastly by having his wings torn off so that he may never fly again. All of these wounds were inflicted by his brawd, Y Draig Wen._

It does sound like a prophecy, I think; confusing and metaphoric, infuriatingly so.

Bothered as I am by this foreboding message, it is surprising that I want to continue on, but I turn the page anyway.

I am welcomed by yet another unsettling sight. Over the two page spread, it depicts a medieval castle wall and the surrounding greenery. The wall is covered in blooming rose vines. A figure with frightening resemblance to the boy from earlier is standing with his back to said wall, consumed by the roses, invading every body part and effectively chaining him to it. One eye is wide with horror and the other one is not there. Instead, it has been replaced by a rose, full in its glorious colour. His mouth is open in naked terror. One arm is outstretched, as if reaching for help, only to have a rose open in his palm and vines creep up to his bloodied wrist.

The imagery is so intense, it propels me into a piece of the past I thought (and hoped, honestly) was long gone.

_I sat at the head of long table, involved in an in depth discussion with King Harold’s advisors on the topic of taxation. It had been a few weeks since we defeated Wales in battle. The king said I must stay behind to run the kingdom, lest I got emotionally invested in the skirmish. He did not put up a good fight and the English victory was easily achieved, or so I have been told. In my heart of hearts, however, I knew that was not true. I grudgingly admit that Wales had some of best archers in Britain, and that he put the art of something behind everything he did (including fighting) so that made Wales a truly viscous opponent._

_Then, the great doors were threw open with a force that could have torn them from their hinges. I did not look up though, for I had far more important matters to attend to. I did not discard my work until I heard the tell-tale sound of a metallic glove being cast upon the polished slate floor. Somebody wanted to duel against me. I was face to face with Wales. His face was smeared with blood and his fringe was plastered to his forehead with sweat, there was mud on his cheeks too. His eyes were swollen and red, which suggested he had been crying a lot._

_“Fight me!” he demanded without preamble._

_“Why should I? Evidently, I have no time to squabble with you.” I said nonchalantly, gesturing to my papers on the table._

_“Squabble? You killed him! You killed him!” Wales shrieked, accent thick and voice heavy with grief. To be fair, he looked on the verge of sobbing._

_I rose from my seat, unsheathed my sword, and we proceeded to have the duel Wales had asked for. For a few minutes, we exchanged equal blows. It was a dance, well-rehearsed, but deadlier. Then, Wales twirled around on his feet artfully, making it look like a flawless pirouette. I did not have time to react ~~(or complement him, like I secretly wanted to)~~ as he violently elbowed me in the chest. It winded me, sending my body toward the floor. Wales was standing above me, his sword tip poised dangerously close to my throat. Guards rushed forward to restrain him, and he fought like a wild animal. Bucking, biting, and kicking. A guard nervously peered at me to see if I would give the order. I shook my head, and they let go. _

_Wales immediately turned away and marched out the doors, head held high._

_“I will never forget this, Llew Wen!” he declared coldly, voice as clear as a church bell._

Now, I am standing up, somehow, and trying not to stumble around like drunk man. I am completely disorientated by the memory. In my confusion, I trip backwards, managing to hit my head on a table.

Everything goes black.


	4. Chapter 2-Act III-A Unicorn, a Dragon and a Giant Walk in on a Knight (While He's Unconscious)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you're all aware, the Muteness and BSL tags come into play here. Cyrmu (Wales) prefers to not speak around Iggy. It stems from when any person who refused to replace their native language with English was prosecuted or killed. Welsh was hit particularly hard. Punishments like the Welsh Not were used to "gently dissuade" kids in Welsh Victorian schools from using it.

**_England’s house, 8:10 am (Scotland’s POV)_ **

****

_BANG!_

As soon I hear Ireland yelp “What in St Peter’s name was that?” and I see Cymru freeze up, a vulnerable look entering his eyes, I abruptly grab Finn by the wrist and start towards the door.

My Welsh brother has always been quick on feet though, so within minutes, even after the brief spell of panic, he’s in front of us. Together, we scramble down the stairs, Mordy leading the charge. I’m not embarrassed to say that we are holding hands, linked like a daisy chain.

It seems like an age before we reach the living room door, wasting no time in opening it. I kick it down for dramatic effect, I’ll admit.

I’m not prepared for what I see.

England sits slumped in the far corner of the room, eyes closed. Mordred’s private sketchbook lies open not far him, on the page Mordred had told me was titled “The English Condition”

One guilty look at Mordred tells me all I need to know.

**Traitor!** He signs sharply, betraying his anger. **I trusted you! You showed him before I was ready! This was supposed to be a secret!**

We stare at each other like this for a while, tension thick in the air. Then Ire speaks timidly, his fragile voice cutting through the space.

“Arty?”

To our relief, Arthur seems to hear him. He groans, turning his head to reveal a particularly nasty cut at the side. He doesn’t open his eyes.

**Concussion.** Cymru signs, rushing ahead of us and diving onto his knees beside Arthur. Being the nation where rugby could be put on the same level as a religion, his boys encountered these things on a daily basis, which made him practically an expert on them.

Again, my brother shows that obvious amount of unease, his hands shaking badly as he reaches out to touch the wound.

That poor boy is simply so _terrified_ of doing _absolutely anything_ wrong by England. He’ll probably become Arthur’s yes-man (boy?) again, like he was before our devolutions (before our rebirths) just to save our hides from England’s abuse (because he’s the one that experienced the more severe degree of it first-hand, both physically and emotionally.)

I have to supress a shudder when I think of those days. The days when Wales would always nod along with England no matter what, never asked to add his own opinions to a debate (even though we all knew he had (and still has) such a lyrical way with words.) The times when England micro-managed Wales in every way imaginable, so that he would end up following England, as silent as a shadow. Those moments when I would catch a glimpse of Wales at meetings, and his eyes would look dull and so utterly _lifel_ ess, the fire in his heart completely extinguished. The little softie has known nothing different for centuries now.

In fact, I’ve lost count of how many times Cymru has lamented how useless he is, and how none of the other countries would mourn him if he faded (like Prussia did) with a simple snap of England’s fingers. So, in summary, my baby brother has done a _superbly amazing_ job of _thoroughly wrecking_ Mordred’s self-esteem.

It’s only with the events like the Essie and the growing strength of the Senedd that I can see him starting to smile again.

Back to the present. Ire has volunteered to look over the wound under Cymru’s instruction. He’s quite sensibly decided not to touch Arthur’s head, because he fears it will damage something. I watch the careful exchange with bated breath. After a few minutes, Ire beckons me over with his hand.

“I think we should just leave him here, to see if he wakes up.”

Then I look to Cymru. His arms are crossed, expression empty. I know that look. _You could’ve asked me, you know,_ it says, _but you still don’t. Nobody does. I actually_ _have my own voice, but every day I feel so depressed about myself and anxious about how I’ll mess up at the next Conference, I don’t use it._

Then his gaze drops to the floor, one hand clenched in a fist and the other making a cutting motion. Belatedly, I realize what he’s trying to say.

**I’m never listened to anyway, so I don’t why bother trying…**

By the timeCymru has actually finished that sentence, his shoulders are shivering with silent sobs. There are tiny puddles on the floor. The troubling implications of what he’s said hit home.

_Oh Wales, people would be lacking any creative inspiration without you…_

“Wales?” I make the foolish mistake of addressing him by his English name. He flinches at the word, curling in on himself even tighter than before. His dog, Ysbryd, whines lowly, trying to stuff his snout into Mordy’s lap.

Wherever Cymru goes, that dog will follow. (Like a king and his number one companion. Let’s just hope that Ysbryd doesn’t die after saving Cymru from the ~~(English)~~ wolf’s jaws this time.)

“Cymru?” I ask a little more tentatively.

No response.

“What do _you_ think we should do?”

That works. Cymru raises his head nervously, as if expecting to be struck. Only St Andrew knows that I don’t have the heart to _actually_ do it, like I used to. Not after I was told what England did to him.

His eyes are bulging like a fish’s. The surprised look on the pitiful laddie’s face would be comical if I didn’t notice the subtext behind it.

_He’s genuinely startled to be on the receiving end of such an important question. The only two others of our kind who have expressions like that one are Francis’ son, Canada, and Leon (who has recently changed his human name to T_ _èbi_ _é.) They almost never get the opportunity to talk at our meetings. All questions meant for Hong Kong are answered by China or England._

**I think,** my brother’s hands methodically form the gestures, his lack of self-confidence showing, **that we should take him to the bedroom. The place is more familiar to him.**

Despite the fact that I know how knowledgeable Mordy is, I am momentarily bewildered by his advice.

I thought I’d never need to do that again, carry England anywhere.

Nevertheless, I haul Arthur up onto my shoulder, like people do in a fireman’s lift. Finn and Mordy follow after me, minding where Arthur’s gangly body goes.

Eventually, I climb to the top of the stairs, Ire darting out from underneath me to clear the way. We shuffle inside Arthur’s bedroom. I lie him flat on his bed. The reluctance of Cymru is clear as he moves a chair across the room to sit by England’s bedside. Ireland and I decide to sit on the other side.

I see Cymru looking forlornly out the window, breathing a barely audible sigh. As usual, Ysbryd lies in his lap. Mordy absentmindedly has his fingers entangled in the grey fur.

“What’s bothering you?”

“Home.” Cymru rasps out roughly, hand clenching. I need no clarification of what he’s talking about.

“We need to wait here.” Ire pipes up unhelpfully.

The look Cymru sends him can only be described as this: grief-stricken. He swallows, valiantly trying not to cry.

“But we have to.” Ire insists, heedless of Cymru’s intense homesickness or deep-rooted depression.

And so we do.


	5. Chapter 2-Act Iv-Time to Face the Music (Your Brawd's Male Voice Choir)

**_England’s bedroom, England’s house, 8:30 am, the same day (3 rd person POV)_ **

****

England opens his eyes to the white celling of his room, bringing a hand slowly to his blond head. It feels like hundreds of his tiny fae are pounding at his skull. Maybe they are, he thinks, because there’s this incessant ringing in his ears that just won’t stop! It sounds too much like fae chatter for this to be considered normal. (But then again, when is the life of a personified county _ever_ like that? Simple answer: _Never.)_ Besides, he’s England. Arthur has dealt with things much more worse than this. Surely, he should be able to manage something as boring as a _headache?_

Arthur tries getting up next. But his body feels like lead and his limbs are sluggish. He settles for moving his head to look about the room. At least, he should gather his bearings, before attempting to move again.

He turns his head to the left, noticing the youngest of the group of intruders is sitting in one of the antique chairs from Arthur’s study. England asks for the most sensible thing in the situation he currently finds himself in.

“Water.” he says hoarsely.

The boy looks at Arthur as if he’s just grown a second head before jumping to his feet, fleeing the room. Arthur is left to his own devices, taking a brief second to register that there is another two chairs in the room. Both of them are vacated. He then hears three different sets of footsteps coming his way, distantly becoming conscious of how their gaits are separate from one another, each having their own sound.

One is light and calculated, quiet as it moves up the stairs. Oddly, that reminds England of an expert piano player, someone who knows what keys to press at exactly the right time. It makes him think of elves too. (Only Wales had (has?) the kind of patience to read The Lord of the Rings cover to cover.)

Another sounds more confident, rapid. Like a boxer’s punches.

The last is loud and deep (which is only adding to Arthur’s headache) but sounds no less urgent than the others.

They barge in. England sees the boy from earlier, and the Scotsman. But Mordred is nowhere to be seen. ~~(It’s Wales, you fool!)~~

The leader stalks over to where England lies, leaning down until their faces are barely inches away from each other. England squirms at that, because his angry eyes are full of dark promises. As it turns out, his mouth is too.

“If you try to do or say anything negative to Mordred like you did before, I **will** run you through.” He murmurs threateningly. England, unfortunately, for the (near-immortal) life of him, can’t recall doing anything with the intention of harming Wales.

The other young man draws himself away from England, eyes fixed on Arthur, full of suspicion. Mordred suddenly appears in the doorway, eyes briefly darting up towards the red head, mouth set in a slightly down turned line. Arthur wonders again at what could be making the boy so melancholy, thinking it’s the detestable weather outside, but something absurdly persistent in his subconscious makes him dismiss that thought.

_~~It’s Wales, you bloody idiot! That’s your **brother** , who absolutely **adores** it when the heavens open!~~ _ ~~He even **dances and sings** in it! It reminds of **home!)**~~

The boy ~~(Wales)~~ carefully approaches England, standing his full height. This gives him an opportunity to observe Mordred. His hair is tousled, sticking up in random places, which bares the marks of a hand running through it endlessly. His clothing is loose, a comfortable white t shirt paired with charcoal black cardigan. He audibly gulps, slowly lowering himself next to England. His movements are stiff as he makes some gestures Arthur doesn’t recognize.

**Can I get dressed please?**

Arthur makes a confused face, as if he’s just tasted a sour apple; scrunching his nose in distaste. “I do not understand what you are saying.” He admits bluntly. Frustration is evident in his tone, filling him with need to draw out the next syllables, as if teaching a class of something in the lowest set. “ _Please speak English.”_

The boy shakes his head vehemently at that request, an underlying current of despair in his eyes. His head ducks down, fringe obscuring his face. His Scottish companion moves forward to comfort him. After a few quickly exchanged signs, Mordred hugs the older teenager before retreating to stand by the wall, pressing his body against it. England gets one brief glance at Mordred’s tear-streaked face before the red head clicks his fingers loudly, demanding attention.

“He just asked,” The leader forces these words through gritted teeth, pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose, “if he could get **dressed.** ” The Scottish young man spits the last word out like curse.

That perplexes England. Why would Mordred feel the need to seek approval to do something so vital for everyday living? And why England’s in particular?

~~(Your fault! Your fault! _YOUR FAULT!)_~~

“You can… if you want.” England says hesitantly. As it turns out, Mordred needs no more prompting. As soon as the words leave England’s lips, Mordred disappears from the room. Arthur quietly marvels at how fleet-footed the young man is.

The youngest of group begins speaking. His sweetly reminiscent tone grabs England’s attention. “And that, ladies and gents, is the reason why he plays at number 10 for his local team.”

England is not given long to ponder this statement. The red head ushers him out the room before turning to England, a very obvious glower upon his face. “Do you even know how messed up I think this still is?” he asks, “Mordred persistently thinks he has to ask you for _permission_ to do, say, or even dress in anything _even remotely_ Welsh. Gods above, he’s lost most of his autonomy!” The red head points out, revolted and furious.

In fact, he is so infuriated, even to the point of physical violence. The Scotsman strides confidently over to England, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar. He raises a fist, hovering it just above England’s face. England braces himself for the impact…

A hit that never comes.

Mordred and the other boy have returned to the room.

The younger of two boys speaks again, his Northern Irish accent extremely distinct. Much like the Scotsman, his voice is full of resentment for England. His young, emerald eyes sparkle with malice. An expression, England thinks, that is so unsuited for a rounded face such as his.

“Whatever Hamish was about to do you, I think you fully deserve it.”

The aforementioned young man comes to stand by the other side of Mordred. He’s wearing a white shirt, overlaid by a burgundy waistcoat. Over his heart, there’s a small, shield shaped pocket, which has a golden, miniaturized version of the Welsh Dragon on it. His necklace is a simple, thin and black loop of string on which hangs a gentlemen’s monocle. He has earrings on; two slender lines of jewels, adorned by polished and tiny versions of the triskellion. He has professional looking trousers on, in the same colour as the waistcoat and a black belt. To complete the look, he wears posh but comfortable shoes.

“Are you ready for this?” the Irish boy announces to no one in particular.

“We present Mordred, personification of Wales, otherwise known as Cymru.” Hamish and the Irish boy say at the same time.

Wales doesn’t look England in the eye. He’s looking off to the side, gripping the chest of drawers behind him in a white-knuckled grasp.

Once again, all England can do is regard Wales with horror.

_Just what had he done to his brother ~~(s)~~?_


	6. Sending Arthur Homeward to Think Again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have the introduction of a canon character who will play a major role in this chapter! 
> 
> The lover of all: France!
> 
> Because a big part of this one is in the Stuart era, Scotty's HN will be James.

**_A few minutes proceeding Act IV of Chapter 2 (Scotland’s POV)_ **

****

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” I snap. My patience with Arthur’s laissez-faire attitude towards dealing with any kind of consequences has worn thin. (That’s one for you, Francis! ~~(Crois moi, Je t’aime toujours.))~~ He’d rather wash his hands of all the blood he has spilt.

Arthur’s blank look only serves to add to the rising tide of frustration I feel within me. For a moment, he continues to stare, uncomprehending. I want to yell at him again, but Finn beats me to it.

“Say something, you Sassenach bodach!” he curses violently. To say I’m surprised by his exact wording would be the understatement of my life. With centuries as Arthur’s lapdogs or underlings under our belts, we have enough resentment towards our younger brother to last us for eternity. Ire is no different. What shocks me is that he has completely had it with England; the fact he is saying it in Gaelic speaks for itself. This staggering insult is reserved only for when Ire is truly fuming with him. When, in Ire’s eyes, England has done something so sinful, that the most fitting punishment for him is to be sent to the slaughter.

That sharp-tongued barb abruptly rips Arthur out of his stupor. He blinks slowly, eventually coming to.

“I’ll repeat what I said earlier to Wales” England grumbles in a deadpan fashion. At mention of my brother’s anglicized name, rather than the one in his native tongue, my brotherly instincts kick in and I move to stand in front of Cymru, effectively blocking him from view with my tall figure.

“... I have no idea what you just said, please speak in my language.”

My features twist into a scowl at that reply. My hackles rise. I growl protectively, leaning forward ever so slightly with my eyes trained on Arthur’s every move.

Poor Mordred tugs on my t-shirt, conflict with England momentarily forgotten. His eyes are wide and vulnerable, begging and pleading. His face is several shades lighter than normal, making him look more like a spooked toddler searching for comfort after a nightmare than the embodiment of ancient nation.

(Then again, this probably _is_ his worst nightmare, next to being tortured by England (like before) or being chucked down a pitch black coal mine without a care in the world for his mental or physical health, at England’s bidding. (Also, like before.))

England begins speaking from his position on the bed, false confidence colouring his voice. “I swear, I haven’t lay a hand on Wales.” He insists.

Ire suddenly leaps from the chair he’s been sitting in, sending it violently crashing towards the carpet. His fists are clenched with poorly concealed rage, breathing heavily.

He jabs a finger at each of us in turn, ending with England. “That’s it!” he roars “You’ve all just broke my last straw! I’m leaving!” Ire walks to the door, turning around to give us the most hostile glare I’ve seen on his face. “You should be thankful I didn’t do it when my sister did!” With those prominent last words, Ire marches out the room.

For an embarrassing long moment we stand frozen in place, paralyzed by the power of his words.

Then, Cymru makes a strange noise, a strangled keen somewhere between a sob and a scream. It sounds too similar to a whine a cornered and wounded animal might make for me to bear it. He leaves the defensive barrier of my body, sidestepping me. Even so, it doesn’t cross my mind to try and stop him. I still can’t process Ire’s previous words.

I watch, seemingly suspended by disbelief and no small amount of trepidation, as Cymru moves forward to shakily kneel on the carpet before England. This is the closest he’s come to completely giving himself away to Arthur in the plain light of day, ever since his first whipping. This is his last meagre shred of self-esteem torn to pieces, left for the vultures to pick at. I can see it in his eyes. The frankly terrifying resignation and numbness consuming him once again.

Mordred _actually speaks to Arthur,_ his voice rough and scratchy from disuse, barely above a whisper.

“Please, I will do anything you want, just to keep you happy. I am nothing but your tongue less vessel, anyways.” 

_Leave my frodyr alone_ is left unsaid, but I sorely hope he’s thinking it.

I look on with disgust as Cymru stands from his kneeling position on the floor to obediently take his old spot by Arthur’s right hand. My disgust isn’t aimed at Mordred. _Not at him, never at him._ The fact that it’s come to this is horrific. Especially cruel to Cymru, considering the date, when he should be at his happiest and remain so for the next six days.

_See? It’s happening all over again, like I told you. This time it’s worse. Cymru doesn’t have a choice. (Maybe he did once, but I think he’s forgotten that he had any choices in the first place, like he’s forgotten **how to choose anything that he actually wants **instead of other people telling him to do something.)_

You can blame that loss of free will on England.

I finally find my voice. Taking a few steps towards England, I relish how hatred drips freely from every pore when I speak.

“Now, we’re going to have a talk. A nice, long chat.”

\---1536+1707---

England recoils from me in fear. Good. That means he’s listening.

My voice takes on a light, conversational tone, as if I am discussing something benign like the British weather.

“You know my name is Hamish,” I smooth my red hair back, circling Arthur like a snake preparing to strike. “What you’ve clearly decided to blow over, is that I’m the personification of Scotland, the wee piece above yeh.”

“I’m still bigger than you.” England protests, some of his old snootiness regained. Although, he doesn’t sound as if he truly believe me just yet.

“Alright, maybe I should tell yeh a story to talk yeh ‘round.” I propose, walking over to the main chest of drawers in the room. I lift myself up onto them, hoping they will hold my weight.

Just as I begin my story, I catch a glimpse of Cymru. He’s fidgeting badly, repeatedly shifting his weight from foot to foot and using one hand to tap the wall. I recognise this gesture all too well. It was used for when Cymru wanted to say something so badly, but had to physically restrain himself due to some sort of situation. He first developed this tic way back when England first advised ( I use that word very lightly) to not speak Welsh. Later, we tried to change it into a code that would allow him to voice his thoughts without giving anything away, but it didn’t work. Over the centuries, the anxious habit faded as the type of “encouragement” England used on Cymru became more and more sinister, and my bràthair beag had totally given up. On the world, on things he held most dear, and on himself.

“I know what” I say with a mischievous glint in my eye, “Why don’t we get Wales to tell the story? After all, it is the _perfect time_ for **him** to do that, isn’t it?”

Cymru tenses up in response, but doesn’t lift his eyes from the floor. _He won’t do so without England’s explicit permission,_ I think sourly.

“C’mon mate, yeh know yeh want to…” I try to coax Cymru softly.

My brother shakes his head weakly at that. I attempt to persuade him again. I somehow manage to smile amicably, but even a blind man could tell it’s a strained one, tight at the edges, lips curled into something more of grimace.

“The stage is yours, Cymru. Just like the old times, right?”

Cymru peeks at me this time, much like he did when we first found England unconscious. His eyes flicker indecisively between England and myself, an implicit appeal in them. My smile becomes wide and genuine. Some of the Gwir Gymru I used to know is remerging. The side of Cymru that I haven’t seen in the longest time. He would **simply never** pass up to tell or craft a good story, accompanied by his trusty harp, like a true bard. He didn’t need a big audience, Cymru just became one because of his love for the arts. He always liked being among normal folk, _declaring_ “Dwi’n siarad â llais y bobl!” every time he entered or left castell y Brenin.

I clear my throat with a loud cough, sending a pointed look in England’s direction. “Permission?” I bark out impatiently.

“Oh, right. You can go on and tell us the story if you feel you need to.” England allows awkwardly.

Cymru takes that as a yes, walking towards me with an uncertain expression on his face. **Which one?** He signs, looking up at me.

I bend forward, so that I can whisper in my brother’s ear. “The… embarrassing one, with France.”

Cymru goes beet red, eyes widening. I don’t like where his mind is going. Sure, there _are plenty_ of private stories of stuff that happened between myself and Francis that I’d rather not tell my parliament, but over half of them shouldn’t be told before the watershed.

Regardless, Cymru turns away from me, limbering up in order to tell the story.

“And the clothes!” I hastily add, several times louder than I mean to. I’m sure I hear Cymru chuckle at me being flustered like this, but it’s too soft for me to be sure.

Cymru and I swap places and he looks to me for confirmation. I nod, and he takes a deep breath…

\---1536+1707--- 

_As Alba was manhandled by some nameless guards, forcibly steered in the direction of a sizeable manor, he caught sight of the owner’s face. England, it seemed, had a countenance matching the fierce weather in the skies above them. It rained upon them endlessly, forming a watery curtain._

_Eventually, Alba was led through the deluge to the steps of England’s house. Arthur’s scowl deepened as he greeted the man he once called brawd. He looked Alba up and down disapprovingly. To his credit, Alba did look like he’d just been dragged through a hawthorn hedge backwards. His clothes were loosely hanging off his body, ripped in multiple places. The only thing he was wearing that appeared remotely intact was his prized Caledonia kilt; surely to be confiscated soon after pleasantries were exchanged, for England deemed any clothing from his enemies’ countries barbaric._

_“You better come in then.” He said tersely. These words held none of their former fondness, empty of faux annoyance. England then disappeared through the door behind him. Alba presumed it was to scurry upstairs, to hide away from Alba’s wrath like a sinner avoiding going to church._

_His departure revealed a slender young man with sandy blond hair, perhaps twenty years old or so. His servant clothes were neatly pressed, hands folded demurely in his lap, head humbly bowed. On closer inspection, however, he looked terribly gaunt; cheeks bony and hollow. Had Arthur been feeding his servants enough?_

_Apparently, somebody had shaved his head too. He was nearly bald. If you were an observant person, you would’ve noticed the small dints on his head- scars lovingly put there by scissors. It made the poor man- barely out of boyhood by the looks of it- resemble a slave._

_“Hey, kid, what’s yeh name?” Alba asked._

_The boy froze, snapping his gaze up to meet Alba’s. The older country needed only a second to recognize those eyes, the colour of the sodden grass beneath his feet…_

_Cymru. Wales._

_Somebody had disfigured his brawd beyond easy recognition. They were going be **very sorry**! But, Alba knew, it would foolish to proceed without all the information at hand (no matter if he would like to.) So he filed it away for being brought up at a later time._

_Pushing down his disgust, he let Wales welcome him in. Wales removed Alba’s coat silently._

_“My master and his friend await your presence upstairs.” Wales spoke with no emotion and an English accent._

_Alba was unnerved by the way Wales said these words. It was as if somebody had gone and sucked the life out of him, leaving naught but an empty casket._

_Nevertheless, he strode upstairs as Wales had told him. For some reason Wales had followed behind Alba. He opened a door. It swung open to reveal England, a neutral look on his face. He was standing up stiffly. From behind Alba, Wales sped to be at England’s left side._

_To his surprise, Francis was standing on England’s right. True to form, the Frenchman was grinning boyishly at Alba and Alba found himself blushing a little. Before he could inquire what in the world France was doing in England’s house, Arthur interrupted them._

_“You are to change your clothing into something more befitting of an ally of mine.” England commanded._

_Ally. Alba inwardly sneered at the term. He knew it was just a sugar coating, a disguise to appease his people. They were his servants now, nothing more._

_England left the room, Wales trailing after him._

_As soon as the door was shut, Francis closed the distance between himself and Alba with three long strides. He greeted James warmly with a tight hug and a little kiss on the cheek._

_“Ècosse! It ‘as been too long since I ‘ave seen you last!” Francis exclaimed merrily._

_Even though Alba agreed with that, he did not share Francis’ joviality. How could he, when his brother was being abused?_

_Blind to his beloved’s quandary, Francis stepped back and gestured towards the finery on the bed._

_“This is the outfit Angleterre wants you to wear, apparently. I ‘ave to admit, it is nice, non?” Francis said._

_It was a traditional Stuart garb for men, in black. The puffy over-shorts with stockings underneath looked horribly tight. There was the classic (but in Alba’s opinion completely ridiculous) ruffle. How was he going to be comfortable wearing this?_

_In the back of his mind, Alba could not help but notice the disparity between his and Wales’ way of dressing. Why could Alba be given similar clothing to England, while his brawd is made to dress like a peasant? He was determined to find out. Alba guessed the servants weren’t privy to that sort of information, and if the latter proved to be true instead, then they were forbidden from telling him anything. So Alba did the second thing that popped into his head: he asked Francis._

_“Something’s wrong with Cymru, Fran. Really wrong.” He blurted out suddenly. In his rush, he exchanged Mordred’s English name for his native one._

_So much for asking, then._

_“Pays de Galles, your frère?” Francis inquired without looking up. He was bent over the bed, a sleeve in hand whilst inspecting the fabric. James suspected he was trying to concoct a plan to try to not have James complain about his new clothes. By the way James could hear Francis muttering, James predicted Francis already knew he was going to fail miserably at that._

_James was also secretly grateful Francis had recognised the use of Mordred’s name in his natural tongue. Even though English was quickly becoming the lingua franca of the newly christened courts of the so-called United Kingdom, Francis opted to not forget the importance of indigenous languages. Perhaps he knew Cymru more than James gave him credit for, that he dreaded the same thing James did; that Cymru would completely disappear when Cymraeg vanished from the tongues and parchment of his people. They both knew how important language was to Cymru._

_So James decided to repay that kindness by responding in French._

_“Qui.”_

_“’e does seem out of sorts lately. ‘e won’t speak unless spoken by to Angleterre, and I don’t see ‘im outside much.” Francis replied gloomily before returning to his usual optimistic self. “But enough of that! We must get this on you!” Francis beamed, turning away from the bed._

_“That thing? I’ll look bloody stupid!” James argued._

_“Nonsense! Black is your colour!” Francis replied flamboyantly._

_“I like **Black Watch tartan** , not the colour!” James retorted, but without insult. After all, he loved Francis dearly. Not that he’d tell anyone, of course. Homosexual relationships were still considered taboo back then. On top that, it was (and unfortunately still is) extremely dangerous for a county to truly be enamoured with one of their own kind. To be a country, your romantic ventures must be detached and for sake of the alliance, treaty or union you are forming. Any amorous attachments outside these civic connections put the ability of their bosses to make further international agreements at dire risk. Simply put, relationships between countries should not be lustful at all._

_A servant and a maid chose that moment to enter the room. The maid spoke with a confident voice._

_“My master is growing impatient. Please hurry.” She then gestured to the boy beside her. “Here, Owen will help you.”_

_“Owen?” James asked, clearly confused._

_In response, the maid pushed Owen forward with a little shove. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, falling face first onto the carpet._

_If it were any other time, James would have laughed at the boy’s misfortune. However, something about the boy prompted James to instead help the servant to a standing position. He saw that Owen made no movement to stand back up. James moved forward to assist the boy. He lent down, extending a hand toward him. The boy lifted his head, and once more James saw that Owen had the same eyes as Cymru._

_Last time James had bothered to check, Cymru’s human alias was Mordred. It had always been Mordred, from the day his king’s head had hit the ground on that fateful morning, and he poetically declared that he was going to bear the mantel of Arthur’s legendary slayer until he drew his last breath. Not only had Arthur stolen a king in name, Cymru had said, but he had robbed another king of his body as well. Cymru was a man of his word, if nothing else._

_So, on top of violating Cymru’s basic rights of food, free space, and consensual body modification, he had forcibly taken his name from him. A name that meant everything to the boy._

_Try as he might, James could not recover from the gravity of this revelation. It had hit him as if he had decided to run full force into a brick wall. The shock of it competed with the loathing towards Arthur he now felt within his heart. The emotions consumed him. All James could manage to say was a weak “Cymru?”_

_As soon as that word left James’ mouth, Owen seemed to come to his senses. He quickly returned to an upright position, keen to maintain whatever dignity he had left. Owen looked James straight in the eye. There was a hollowness to his eyes as he spoke with an empty voice, void of any and all feeling. It was mechanical, so unlike the sensitive boy James used to know._

_“I do not go by that name anymore. My lord commanded it to be so.”_

_Again, James was taken aback by the numbness in Wales’ voice. He dared not ask what had happened to Cymru in order to change him so massively. But he knew who this “lord” was, there was no question about it- it was England._

_All thoughts of appeasing England’s request faded away at that moment. A single mission was now in its place: make England pay for what he had done for Wales. Treating a person like a slave, a commodity to be passed around, was the lowest of the low. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he had inflicted it on his own family._

_Quick as lightning, Alba stood up, gathering the outfit Arthur wanted him to wear within his arms. He would not be a part of this. From their earliest days, Britannia, their mother, had told them to protect one another. To always have each other’s backs. The life of a young country was hard, and the principle of strength in numbers would help then through it. What Arthur was doing right now went against that. Being the oldest, Alba didn’t want to sully the memory of his mother._

_Also, Cymru had this kind of hidden sharpness to him, like a knife blade. Even before all this, the middle brother had been teased for his shyness of war and falling on feminine pursuits. Those who did not know him did that. If you are lucky enough to see him with his bow, you would know he knew was an expert in that art, being able to strike a tree from a thousand paces away. Alba could admit this to himself, that he was extremely heavy-handed and obvious. Mordred, however, was the complete opposite. To lose such an artist meant that the brothers could lose the softness that the others lacked, and who knows what could happen then? There would be no subtle magick -Cymru’s magick- and the world would lose all its colour._

_Alarmed by James’ sudden movements, Francis seemed to have stood up as well. James was standing in the doorway when he spoke hysterically in a furious half whisper, as to not alert the guards or anyone else in the house._

_“What in God’s name are you doing Ècosse? ‘ave you lost your mind? Think of our alliance! Angleterre could tear us apart!”_

_James may have heard those words, but he did not bother replying to them. He had a job to do and a brother to punch ( **hard** )._

_He stormed down the stairs, scaring all the servants on the way to the main room, caring not about how he looked to them. Luckily, the door to the main room was already open. Alba walked in, dumping his new clothes on the table in the middle. He put his dagger on top of them, a signal of challenge. The stabbing of his new garments seemed to have caught England’s attention. He looked up disinterestedly._

_“I thought I told you to get ready.” He said, exasperated._

_“Get ready for what, exactly? Get ready so you can parade us around cows in a market?” Alba growled menacingly, one hand still on his dagger whilst leaning across the table. “I **know** what you did to Mordred._

_England and Alba were practically face to face with one another. England spread his hands across the table._

_“Wales is under my jurisdiction now. His welfare is none of your concern.” He stated plainly, almost as if he was bored._

_“He’s still my brother!” Alba shouted back, adding “he’s still **your brother** too!”_

_England huffed, continuing on as if he hadn’t heard James. “Look, we need this union. Elizabeth and Mary were always at each other’s throats. I need you._

_The anger inside Alba had dampened a little, seeing that Arthur just mentioned Mary, Queen of Scots. He may not have loved her as he now loves Francis, but it was a close thing. He missed her dearly._

_“Alright,” he acquiesced, “but on one condition: you must be nicer to Wales. Give him his name back. If you don’t, I will hurt you.”_

_“I promise.” England vowed, shaking hands with Alba._

\-- 1536+1707—

Mordy breathes, a little shakily, as he finishes the story. He looks tired to me as well. He’s willingly relived some dark memories, and believe us countries when we say that can take a toll on you. There are rings around his eyes, and he looks a little pale, but under that longish fringe of his, he’s smiling. A proud one, almost sagging with relief that it’s over, but it’s a smile all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't finished yet. I just finished Scotland's little story, but I don't know what should happen between then and Knock, Noch!-Ireland's flashback chapter. Don't worry, I have all of his planned out. Feel free to leave suggestions in the comments!


End file.
